


Dust-Bowl Dance

by Yangry



Category: RWBY
Genre: Gen, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, Inspired by Music, Non-Graphic Violence, Short One Shot, Songfic
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-05-27
Updated: 2015-05-27
Packaged: 2018-04-01 13:47:13
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 791
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4022161
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Yangry/pseuds/Yangry
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A lot of people want revenge. A lot of people don't understand that sometimes, when revenge is served it tastes of nothing. And Jaune Arc will learn the hard way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Dust-Bowl Dance

**Author's Note:**

> Based on the song Dust Bowl Dance by Mumford and Sons.

The smell of gunpowder was still sharp in the air.

A young boy stood there, eyes wide, hand shaking. He’d watched the gun in his hand expelling his own innocence, an act done out of rage, out of vengeance, out of justice. He’d done it. Blood splattered the dusty floor. A man lay in front of him dead. He’d done it.

Why did revenge taste of nothing? Why was he suddenly crippled by his fear now, when a minute ago he’d pulled a trigger without a tremor in his hands? Were the visions of metal bars, disgusted faces, stolen life taking the victory from him? Did he believe this was justice now that he'd went through with it?

This was the only explanation.

His head whirred back in time. To the dances, to horses galloping on fields, to sweltering days out in the fields. To when a gun didn’t seem so filthy and when evil was black and white. When he’d sit with his sisters, and the older ones would tell him what it was like at school. When his father would take him horse-riding.

He then went to the times where they suddenly had to miss meals. Where his father came home exhausted, when through the thin walls of the house he could hear his mother crying. Where his father screamed at the crows who dared go near his silos, or pounded the ground with his feet when they awoke in the morning to find blood and feathers around the henhouse. Where his father would shoot any predator that came anywhere near their farm, foxes and coyotes and wolves, and even ended up shooting their own dog. Where he’d stumble home with whiskey on his breath; those were the nights his mother cried most.

Another step, another time. When a man in a sharp suit went to the study and made his mother and father cry. When he’d spat at him and his sisters. When his sister fell ill, and when the ranch hands left. When his father was found face-down in the pillow dead, several bottles of alcohol surrounding his corpse. When his mother begged the man in the suit to let them stay. When his sister died and was laid next to their father, with crosses he’d made himself. When his mother and some of his sisters disappeared into town and came back with bruises on their necks, faces and arms and a little bit of money, and they’d never tell him what happened.

And to two years later he went, when they finally dragged his family out of the house they held so dear, every animal dead and with no crops that would yield anything to bring them sustenance. When he understood, and where sadness and confusion lead to rage. That’s what led Jaune Arc, the only son left of Jacques Arc, to the man in the suit, a year later with a horse and a shotgun. He’d traveled for months, researched and found every bit of information he could. For his father. For his mother and sisters. For the life and the chances and the experiences he’d lost.

And that’s what led him to murder.

Jaune knew his name, but it felt like poison to think about it. He was still standing there, on the dusty road, the sun beating down on him and the dead body at his feet. He hadn’t run. He hadn’t tried to hide. A man on a horse stopped in front of them. Jaune still looked so young- that’s probably why the man didn’t seem to exercise the amount of caution you would when you suspected you were confronting a killer.

“Son, did you do this?”

Jaune nodded, he couldn’t answer in his shock. He could only feel the darkness ebbing inside of him, threatening to choke him up, able to because he pulled that trigger. The shotgun wasn’t in his hand any more. He’d dropped it sometime, he hadn’t noticed.

“Did you mean to kill him?”

Jaune nodded again, this time with tears in his eyes.

“He killed him, though. _He killed him_.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about, kid. I’m going to have to take you to the sheriff. This man looks important.”

Jaune nodded again. He knew what was going to happen now. He was going to be arrested, tried for murder, jailed. He knew he’d sealed his fate when the bullet went through the skull of that man. He already knew what he was going to say.

_“Yes sir, yes sir, yes it was me,_

_I know what I’ve done, because I know what I’ve seen_

_I went out back and I got my gun,_

_I said, “You haven’t met me, I am the only son.”_


End file.
